

^ 55 5 

1<U6 















COPYRIGHT deposit. 

















LEGEND OF 
THE WEAVER OF 
PARADISE 


B) 

AGNES COCHRAN BRAMBLETT 

'/ 


THE J. W. BURKE COMPANY 
Publishers 
Macon, Georgia 




pS 3503 

,R2555bt 


| 


Copyrighted, 1928 
By 

Agnes Cochran Bramblett 





FEB -1 :9i'9 

©CIA 4197 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The Legend of The Weaver of Paradise .10-13 

POEMS OF NATURE 

Earth Song . 17 

Resurrection .18-19 

To a Lake . 20 

Spring Song. 21 

Peach Blossom Time .,. 22 

Daffodils ...:. 23 

Autumn Mist . 24 

Wood’s Child .:. 25 

Spring’s Challenge .s.26-27 

The Surprise . 28 

Miracle . 29 

River Song . 30 

Winter Has Come . 31 

How Shall I Wait?. 32 

Moons . 33 

The Five o’Clock Afternoon Moon. 33 

Eight o’Clock Moon . 33 

Dawn Moon . 34 

Lullaby . 35 

“Dust Unto Dust”. 36 

Winter Time In Georgy . 37-38 

POEMS OF RELIGION 

Infinity . 41 

Offering . 42 

Faith . 43 

“Raboni” ...-.44-45 

Mary, The Mother—To Jesus . 46 

Impatience . 47 

O. Hail Sweet Day . 48 

His Care . 49 

The Desert Guide .-.50-51 

The Pilot .-.52-53 

God Called . 54-55 

POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND ASPIRATION 

There Is a Light in Your Eye . 59 

The Tired Star..60-61 

Keeper of The Prison . 62 

Adventure . 63 


( 3 ) 









































CONTENTS—(Continued) 


PAGE 

Behold The Dawn .64-65 

The Song of The Quaint Little Hat . 66 

Understanding .67-68 

The Spinner .69-70 

My Candle .71-72 

POEMS IN DIALECT 

Sleepy Song . 75 

Ain’t Gwine Worry! .». 76 

POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

The Way of The Child . 79 

Choice Gifts . 80 

Tenement Children .81-82 

POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 

The Indian Dancer . 85 

Gypsy Lass . 86-87 

The Suicide’s Son . 88 

Granny . 89 

The Reckless Deacon . 90 

Consolation? .91-92 

Modernism . 93-94 

The Prayer of Mrs. J. Withersby St. George .95-96 

The Prayer of Widow Magrew . 97-98 

The Heathen Woman to Her God .99-100 

The Prodigal .101-104 

A Veteran’s Reverie .,.105-107 

POEMS OF PLACES 

Still House . 111-112 

The Lonesome House . 113 

The Widow’s Garden .114-116 

POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP 

Beloved, The Shadows of Evening Are Falling .119-120 

Retribution .121-122 

Good-bye .123-124 

Separation .125-126 

Good Night . 127-128 

Hospitality .129-130 

DEDICATORY POEMS 

To The Lad in The Trench . 133 

To a Friend Who Sent Me Roses . 134 

To The Unknown Hero .135-136 


( 4 ) 




































TO 


MY HUSBAND 







foreword 


■y —+—■+ 


The purpose of this book is to maintain a 
reasonable balance between the ultra-mod¬ 
ernist and the older school of conservatives. 
Sophistication and over-emphasis upon the 
technical points of modern writers of verse 
have a tendency to place the ban on pleas¬ 
urable reading by the masses of poetry lovers. 

Realizing the radical change in the school 
of poetry, one begins questioning if the pen¬ 
dulum has not swung sufficiently far, or if 
the new era shall outlive the old. 

I have attempted to treat naturally the 
familiar themes which have been chosen for 
this book, with the hope that there may be 
found within its covers a song to satisfy the 
sense of everyone into whose hands it may 
fall. 


The Author. 













































* 
































LEGEND OF THE WEAVER OF 
PARADISE 


Part I 

You forgot his age,, if old or young, 

His shoulders stooped, but his voice, when he sung 
Low snatches of strange, fantastic airs, 

Was like young wind in the flowering pears 
When white-winged petals seek the grass, 

Like the water’s coo in the ice broken pass 
That ribbons the hill where the Spring’s deep cup 
Oozes crystal nectar. Should you interrupt 
His diligent and watchful weaving, 

As he lifted his brow, he found you believing 
He had known Life since Time began, 
Strangely-patient, mysterious man! 

Indomitable Spirit of Eternal years, 

Brother to Sorrow’s scalding tears, 

Brother to Joy, Brother to Pain, 

Toiler with drab reward of gain! 

Weaving an endless length of gray 
That with miser-care he hoarded away 
From the eyes of the curious that went 
To look, amazed at his quiet content. 

There was somewhat of charm in his manner and 
face, 



10 LEGEND OF THE WEAVER OF PARADISE 


A vagabond’s ease, a prince’s grace. 

Accomplice of Silence, weaving gray thread, 
Pausing when the sun flamed red 
Laving the world in a flood of light 
That merged into gold, into blue, then night 
With its hush and mystery manifold. 

He lifted his face to be washed in the gold 
Of the moon, he called stars by name, 

Was part of the night, part of the flame 
Of the dawn, held the rising sun to his heart, 
Watched the work-a-day world start, 

Understood artist and amateur, 

Scorned the slattern, loved the doer. 

Patient weaver of mystery! 

Like the calm that follows catastrophe, 

Or the atmosphere of a holy place 
Was the look he wore upon his face. 

Part II 

I passed his house in the midnight gloom 
And heard him talking to his loom. 

“Despise not the heap of drab, gray thread 
Resembling the winding robes of the dead 
In a dismal heap on a funeral pyre. 

Learn, Good Friend, that heart’s desire 
May for all time be denied. 

The fates heed not if you laughed or cried. 
Rejoice that the sun falls into this room, 

That star-dust and moon-gold gladden the gloom, 



LEGEND OF THE WEAVER OF PARADISE 11 


That fragrance wafts thro the open door, 

That footprints of autumn fall before 
The winter’s wailing, icy breath, 

Heed me—naught is sure but death! 

No time or place in the speeding years, 

For a debauchee of needless tears. 

Go on weaving these threads of gray, 

Nor pine for the colorful summer’s day, 

The crimson rose, the grace of a maid, 

The glimpse of heaven thro filtering shade. 
Beautiful patterns may be denied, 

Dreams and hopes be crucified, 

But if the pattern turns out strong 
There is beauty in strength. If your unskilled song 
Be crude keep your vision, hold fast your dream, 
Time—Time it takes to finesse the theme. 

Glory waits at the end of the road 
With arms out-stretched to receive the load 
Of well-borne burdens—Friend, be glad 
Of strength for the year’s toil you have had, 

Toils are recompensed one day.” 

Then silence—and I went my way. 

Part III 

Years sped. The shabby coat he wore 
Fell in a heap of rags on the floor. 

The roof that sheltered him from the sky 
Crumpled and sagged. His calm eye 
Seemed unheeding of Time’s decay 



12 LEGEND OF THE WEAVER OF PARADISE 


As he sat there weaving the years away. 

His garments grew thin, his feet were bare, 

An aureole shone about his hair. 

When morning or eventides fell on his door, 
When the storms rode the earth with demoniac 
roar, 

When the winds danced lightly the fields of grain, 
When earth was pricked with needles of rain, 

As you looked at him you felt him to be 
Intimate friend of Destiny. 

Part IV 

I passed his house in the early dawn. 

The door was closed—the curtains drawn. 

I knocked—I called. Not a sound. 

I opened the door. There I found 
The weaver dead at the ancient loom. 

The dawn walked with me into the room, 

Bringing the sunshine in her wake. 

I crossed him for Love and Pity’s sake. 

Then turned to find a winding sheet 
For burial. Lo, what should meet 
The quest of my troubled, startled eyes 
Than a tapestry labelled— “Paradise.” 

Oh, its marvelous beauty awed and hurt, 

I stood amazed, helpless, inert, 

Overwhelmed! I could not speak 
Or call aloud to others, or seek 
From finite minds to understand 



LEGEND OF THE WEAVER OF PARADISE 13 


The finished fabric of the hand 
That wove his dreams in Paradise. 

There was miracle of earth and skies 
As he saw them moving to and fro— 

Silent weaver, could you know 
The heritage you leave behind, 

That others following will find 
No drab reward for your toiling years! 

I drained the fountain of my tears. 

Then, in reverence and love 
I looked upon the cloth he wove, 

Heaped up higher than the ceiling, 

I had the strange uncanny feeling 
Of sleep-walking. There was no gray, 

But stored carefully away 
Richest colors, patterns rare, 

Summer sunshine without glare, 

Moonlight, stardust, dawn and dew, 

Royal purple, azure blue. 

Colors heaped like clouds that tower 
Like mountains at the sunset’s hour. 

L’Envoi 

He had said: “Keep your vision, hold fast to your 
dream. 

Time—Time will finesse the theme. 

Glory waits at the end of the road 

With out-stretched arms for the toiler’s load.” 





POEMS OF NATURE 





EARTH SONG 


Who can walk the glad earth and not sing 
Is an inanimate and soulless thing. 

Earth’s beauty and rejoicing God has given 
To familiarize the songs of heaven. 

When at last we shall achieve that goal 
Toward which we looked with yearning eyes, the 
soul 

Will not like a wistful stranger be, 

Having once claimed friendship with a tree, 

A summer cloud, a song bird or a flower, 

Will come to realize in that curtained hour 

That folk discuss with human dread and fear, 
Familiar beauty cumulated there. 

The catyclysmic radiance of His face 
Would overwhelm if in some other place 

We had not once intimately known 

The hills He walked, the fields His hand had sown. 



18 


POEMS OF NATURE 


RESURRECTION 


Young switches are green on the willows, 

Tassels are half-grown on the alder bushes, 

There is a chirping, a calling, a flashing of wings 
in the pale sunshine; 

Upon the hills the daffodils shine like a host of 
morning stars. 

Down in the marshes myriad small voices 

Are piping a message—a message of promise, 

“It is the season of life—life—life!” 

Why do the young green willow switches tremble? 

Why do alder blooms shake when no wind is blow¬ 
ing? 

Why gaiety on last year’s flower bed and the rud¬ 
dier hue of the robin’s breast? 

How poverty-stricken and ignorant who holds not 
in his finite mind 

This sweet knowledge ! An infinite power 

Moves them, they thrill with the beauty of its 
being! 




POEMS OF NATURE 


19 


The bird swift of wing, rapturous with song, 
Makes glad the wooded solitudes, pouring 
Out its gratitude that some unseen hand has stript 
the bare brown earth 

Of sleet and snow. The daffodil lifts her loving 
cup of gold, rejoicing 

That a sunbeam sought her in the gloom, lingered 
In her quiet heart so long, when he laid her on 
the earth’s full-throbbing heart. 
Pale-faced children laugh and dance with joy, 
Singing, “Sunshine, sunshine on the hills again!” 

O greening little willow switches, 

Alder bushes flowering in the marsh, 

Winged miracles of song, throb-throbbing joy, 
Gay bits of Joseph’s coat about the earth, 
Reminders that there is no thing like death! 
After seasons of travail and toil, 

That which we call a common resting place 
Becomes transfigured by Omnipotence, 

Loosed the coil that binds the fettered clay, 
There is a stir, the thrill of life, a light, 

The glory of the resurrection! 



20 


POEMS OF NATURE 


TO A LAKE 


For centuries you have looked up at the sky, 
Partaker of her variating mood, 

Low moaning winds and wild bird’s startled cry 
Disturb the silence of your solitude. 

The willows standing on your marshy brink, 

Lean slenderly to see their mirrored grace, 
Stealthy-footed wild things come to drink 
The limpid water from your placid face. 

Night’s mirror, where the burning stars reflected 
Iridescent scimiters of light, 

Migrating birds instinctively directed 

Seek you, a haven on their homeless flight. 




POEMS OF NATURE 


21 


SPRING SONG 


A cold dark day a robin was swinging on a limb ; 

He seemed to sense by some strange quirk that I 
was watching him. 

Red of breast, feathers brown, swift and light of 
wing, 

His eyes were stars he’d stolen; I longed to hear 
him sing. 

A few raindrops had pattered down and damped 
his plumage gay, 

He preened himself and cocked his head, defiant 
of the day. 

He twitteringly tried his voice to see if it were 
strong, 

Then stirred the air to rapture and to wonder with 
his song. 

The while he trilled his fluted song the sun came 
smiling out, 

Apple blossom fragrance and green leaves were 
all about. 

I heard a whir, a flutter of a dainty little wing, 

The bird had flown, the cold was gone, 

And everywhere was Spring! 




22 


POEMS OF NATURE 


PEACH BLOSSOM TIME 


Beneath my warm coat brown and still 
I feel a flutter and a thrill. 

I hear small voices calling me 
“Release—release us, Mother Tree. 
Already we have slept too long, 

We hear the murmur of the song 
The rills are singing to the sea; 
Cowslips bloom abundantly. 

“We feel the kiss of warming sun 
That tells us winter’s course is run.” 
From the shelter of my heart 
Like dainty butterflies they dart. 

Into the saffron glow and glare 
Of early spring my children fare. 

I am rejoiced to watch them go, 

They transform the hillside so! 




POEMS OF NATURE 


23 


DAFFODILS 


I thought I saw the sunshine a-dancing on the hills, 

The grass was green and tender, all the little rills 

Were singing, rushing onward to join the charging 
main, 

Silver-ribboning their way across the spreading 
plain. 

I thought I saw gold sunshine a-dancing to and fro, 

I thought I heard the Pipes o’ Pan a-calling me to 
g°- 

I hastened to the woods, the plains, and up the 
greening hills, 

To find what I thought sunshine was golden daf¬ 
fodils ! 




24 


POEMS OF NATURE 


AUTUMN MIST 


Softly it comes floating down 
Like a lady in a soft gray gown, 

Who folds to her patient heart a past 
Of romances that did not last. 

Draping herself in a mantle of gray 
Saying farewell to summer’s sweet day. 

O, there is joy in her ease and grace 
As she folds me in her close embrace. 

I love her wet kiss on my lips, 

The soothing touch of her finger tips, 

Like the fragrance of rose from the long ago. 
I match my step to hers—grown slow. 

I love the calm of the atmosphere 
That she creates when the night is near. 

On the branches drooping, wet, 

A spray of leaves in silhouette 
Against the lady’s filmy gown, 

A phantom wind sends them swirling down. 
She gathers her garments close about 
And floats away—and the stars are out! 




POEMS OF NATURE 


25 


WOOD’S CHILD 


I was a wood’s child, 

Halcyon days were mine. 

From Mother Earth’s kind breast 
I drained sustaining wine. 

My shelter was a gray moss-covered tree 

That whispered of the four winds’ minstrelsy. 

I lived undisturbed 
’Til one warm day 

Someone picked me, and 
I heard a glad voice say, 

“O see, the first wild violet we’ve seen! 

How beautiful the blue against the green!” 

Then I heard a strange sound, 

“Beat-beat-beat!” 

And a great voice said, 

“O sweet—my sweet!” 

Tho crushed and bruised I felt so strangely glad, 

Prest close between two hearts—’twas love I had. 

My woodland heart 
Rejoiced that it was so, 

Being a timid wood’s child, 

Strange that I should know! 




26 


POEMS OF NATURE 


SPRING’S CHALLENGE 


I call you, you earth-bound, nature-loved children, 
Lift up your heads, your sweet heads from the 
fold 

Of the garments of gray earth so kindly protective 
From frost, storm and sleet and the winter’s 
dark cold. 

It was kind, it was nature-wise, motherly-loving, 
When fell the first frost that lowered your head, 
The same stroke that felled you painted a cover 
Of autumnal beauty to place on your bed. 

Came winter when only the wind and the sunbeam, 
Starlight and moonshine and raindrop and dew 
Knew of your sheltered place under the soft earth, 
And carried a message of comfort to you. 

Burst, you brown buds, and you, red of the maple, 
Make feast for the vision of tired passerby, 
Hang out your blossoms, you peach, pear and 
apple, 

Make a gay rainbow to span the blue sky. 




POEMS OF NATURE 


27 


All of you meek little folk of the woodland, 

Where rustles the wing of the thrush and the 
lark, 

Shake off the fetters of winter that bound you, 
Lift up your beautiful selves from the dark. 

The woodland and hillside are clothed in glad 
raiment, 

The breeze rocks the branches where birds nest 
and sing, 

Glad earth is wearing an airy green garment 
That sways to the song and the whir of light 
wing! 



28 


POEMS OF NATURE 


THE SURPRISE 


Hush, my child, be quiet and still, 

What is the faint sound over the hill? 

Is it the rustle of breezes that blow, 

Is it the waving to and fro 
Of the young green corn 
In the early morn ? 

What is the sound I hear? 

Is it the brooklet murmuring low, 

Or timid foot-falls, stealthy and slow, 

Stirring about, mysterious, creeping, 

Fearful of waking the woodfolk sleeping? 

Hist, my child, be quiet and still, 

Let’s peep o’er the hill, 

O, what is the sound I hear? 

Hold fast my hand, now—let’s peep together— 
Why mercy upon me ! It is the weather 
Quietly changing behind the hill! 

O, my child be very still - 

I hope he will wear 

The sun in his hair 

As he comes from over the hill! 




POEMS OF NATURE 


29 


MIRACLE 


Behold, again the mystery 
Of bursting bud and greening tree! 

Where lately woods were brown and gray 
The jasmine has festooned gay 
Gold labyrinths of delight, 

The dogwood with her pearly white 
Petaled flowers invites the eye, 

Challenging the passer-by 
To loiter long, to rest, to dream 
Beside yon crystal woodland stream. 

The lily lifts its fragile bloom 
From out its tenement of gloom 
Into the sunshine’s kindly glow. 

O miracle, that flowers know 
The hour they are called to be 
Witnesses for eternity! 




30 


POEMS OF NATURE 


RIVER SONG 


Sing on to the sea, O River, 

Sing on to the hungry sea. 

Your offering shall satisfy never, 

Throughout eternity. 

Ever she crawls with grasping hands, 

Taking her toll of the potent lands. 

What does she yield you, O River, 

That feed her from year to year? 

Relentless winds that shiver 

You thro, and sometimes a tear. 

She gathers the calm of you to her breast 

And makes you accomplice of her unrest. 

On, on to the sea, singing water, 

To your mecca—the billow and foam. 

Run like an errant daughter 

Estranged from mother and home. 

Rocked on her breast you become a part 

Of the troubled song of her sobbing heart. 




POEMS OF NATURE 


31 


WINTER HAS COME 


Winter has come—Summer is gone. 

The wild goose has flown 
Where hibiscus and rose 
Are safe from the snows. 

Scarlet and gold of tapestried hill 
Flutter gaily, a-thrill; 

The artist, wild rover, 

Snatches the cover 

From their slender limbs and tapering arms, 
Exposing the beauty of exquisite charms, 

As they sway to and fro 
With the wild winds that blow 

On their frost silvered harps. “Endurance is 
mine!” 

Sigh the stript tree and vine, 

“I am the product, yea, gladly a part 
Of earth’s throbbing heart. 

“Tho naked my body, clothed shall it be, 

Behold me, child of Infinity! 

In the springtime I shall wear 

Sunshine and green leaves to garland my hair!” 




32 


POEMS OF NATURE 


HOW SHALL I WAIT? 


How shall I wait to see again 
Lilac bloom in silver rain, 

Blue hyacinth and daffodil, 

Borders of violet, thrift and squill? 

How shall I wait so long to see 
The iris and anemone, 

The earth changing her shabby dress 
To one of filmy loveliness? 

It shall be long—another year 
Before my eager ears shall hear 
Spring singing like a happy boy 
With upturned face—Spirit of Joy, 

Of Promise, Hope! With his young hand 
Flinging beauty ’cross the land. 

Another year—it shall be long 
To wait, to hear again his song, 

To feel the music in his voice 

That makes the earth throb and rejoice, 

And offer of the hoarded treasure 
Of her heart—for his sweet pleasure. 




POEMS OF NATURE 


33 


MOONS 

THE FIVE O’CLOCK AFTERNOON MOON 


Winter’s day was gray and cold, 

Over tree-tops rose the gold, 

Glorious, full, round moon, 

At five o’clock in the afternoon! 

From the clearing western sky 
Colored cloud-ships sailing by 
Swung pendant in the icy air, 

Mauve and pink, they clustered there 
Like some colorful bouquet 
Gathered on a sweet June day. 
Winter’s wistful days were turned 
To a memory deep-burned, 

Ribboned streams and green pathways, 
Other moons and yesterdays! 

EIGHT O’CLOCK MOON 


Harbinger of sleep and rest, 
Placing on the earth’s warm breast 
Diadems a queen might wear, 
Haloing her tangled hair. 

Robing her in gold and lace, 
Softening her wrinkled face. 





34 


POEMS OF NATURE 


DAWN MOON 


You watch the holy mystery of earth, 
Blade, leaf and opening bud given birth 
By that strange unfathomable power 
Of transition, that still and magic hour 
When the old gray-clothed quiet night 
Merges into dawn’s effulgent light. 

O glowing jewel, pendant in the skies, 
Too soon the marvel of your beauty flies 
Before the herald of the new-born day, 
In mists of rose and gold you slip away! 




POEMS OF NATURE 


35 


LULLABY 


Fly home, Little Bird, for the night shades fall, 
And the bat is on the wing, 

The little house in the shadows calls, 

And the lark has ceased to sing, 

The lamp is lit near the window sill, 

And flickers to the breeze; 

Everything is quiet and still, 

As the wind stirs in the trees. 

Fly home, Little Bird, Little Bird, fly home, 
You’ve sung in the meadows sweet, 

And over the field with flowers afoam, 

You’ve played with the breezes fleet. 

There’s a downy nest awaiting for you, 

And a song that wants to be sung, 

And a thousand stars are winking too, 

Like fairy lanterns hung. 

Fly home, fly home, for the black bat soars 
In the air above your head. 

A little boat with silver oars 
Is waiting by your bed. 

There is a field of poppy flowers 
Which you may wander through, 

And a man with sand has waited hours 
For the home-coming of you. 




36 


POEMS OF NATURE 


“DUST UNTO DUST” 


The sun will rouse the drowsy morn, 

The winds will sweep thro fields of corn, 
Naught will be changed when I am gone. 

There will be passing seasons still, 

Spring will hang garlands on the hill, 
Winter’s voice bid brooks be still. 

I—resting in the heart of earth 
Shall hear the quick, delightful mirth 
Of blade and blossom given birth. 

Curious roots will seek me there 
And wrap their tendrils in my hair, 

Their strange, sweet secrets with me share. 

There will be messages of rain, 

I shall be glad to feel again 
These old friends in my still domain. 

Dust of the earth! I shall rejoice 
To feel her breathing, hear her voice, 

To know the wisdom of her choice 

Of plants to magnify and grow 
To send into the sunshine’s glow. 

I shall be gone—but I shall know. 

The sun will rouse the drowsy morn, 

The wind will sweep thro fields of corn, 
Naught will be changed—when I am gone. 




POEMS OF NATURE 


37 


WINTER TIME IN GEORGY 


A tribute to Frank L. Stanton 

The South’s sweet song is silent, strangely hushed 
an’ still, 

Sadness comes a-creepin’ like a shadder on the hill. 

It’s well it isn’t June-time with roses all a-bloom, 

Their red would be unfittin’ in a world so full o’ 
gloom. 

The bird’s sweet song vibratin’ would stir a mem¬ 
ory, 

An’ come too near to breakin’ the hearts that 
mourn for thee. 

It’s winter-time in Georgy, it’s winter, an’ we’re 
glad 

The trees are stript an’ naked, because they feel 
so sad. 

It wouldn’t do to hurt a rose or hush the song¬ 
bird’s trill, 

Or check the silver-ribboned brook a-laughin’ 
down the hill. 

If spring flowers were a-bloomin’, or gentle sum¬ 
mer rain 

Was dancin’ on these red ole hills, they couldn’t 
stan’ the pain. 




38 


POEMS OF NATURE 


There’s a sighin’ in the pine trees an’ the gray an’ 
stricken grass 

Don’t seem to take no comfort from the vagrant 
winds that pass. 

It’s winter-time in Georgy, the silence seems to tell 

The sorrow o’ the Southland for one she loved so 
well. 

When the snow has fallen an’ cold an’ rain are 
over, 

Who will sing o’ drunken bees a-ravagin’ the 
clover ? 

Who will sing o’ robins an’ the flowerin’ apple 
tree, 

O’ sunshine, shade an’ shadder an’ the homey 
things that be ? 

O’ colored folk, an’ white folk an’ the simple 
things o’ life, 

Songs o’ love an’ cheer an’ peace, amid turmoil an’ 
strife? 

It’s winter-time in Georgy. The weather’s cold 
an’ bad, 

The South’s a-wearin’ mournin’ for her heart is 
broke an’ sad. 



POEMS 


OF RELIGION 




















































































































































































































INFINITY 


I see infinity imprest 

Upon the mountain side; 

Upon the earth’s full flowing breast, 
And rivers deep and wide. 

The voice of God is moving 
In winds that sweep the sea, 

The cobalt heavens proving 
Power—immensity! 

I find the imprint of His hand 
And hear His voice each hour, 

Eternal spirit of the land 
Exprest in tree or flower. 

Mirrored in youthful faces, 

Or in the peace of age 

God—His diary traces 

On Time’s illustrious page! 



42 


POEMS OF RELIGION 


OFFERING 


Perhaps it is not much 
I have to give, 

A little while to pray, 

An hour in which to help my brother live. 

All I have to lay at His dear feet 
Seems trite and scarce worth noticing to me, 
Yet I know that He will make complete 
My gift, and beautify it thru eternity. 

Tho within my childish heart it seems not much, 
After having known His tender touch 
It shall at last become a part of heaven— 
Even this little offering I have given. 




POEMS OF RELIGION 


43 


FAITH 


To see in the sunset’s splendor and glow, 
In the twilight gray and still, 

In the star of evening hanging low, 

In the shadow on the hill: 

The promise of Tomorrow, 

The glory of morning star, 

Oblivion of sorrow 

And sordid things that are; 

Knowing when night hours are over, 
The new-born dawn will spill 
A world-full of sunbeams about her 
As she sings enthroned on the hill. 
To see in the snowflakes falling, 

The pageant beauty of spring, 

To hear in the reapers’ calling 
Heaven’s echoing. 




44 


POEMS OF RELIGION 


“RABONI!” 


There is someone standing there 
With a sunbeam on his hair, 

Like a candle burning white, 

In the darkness of the night— 

There is beauty in his face 
Permeating all the place. 

********** 

Hail, fair stranger, cans’t thou say 
Who has borne my Lord away? 
Weeping, I had watched Him die, 
Heard His agonizing cry 
“It is finished!” He was torn 
With the bloodstained spear, the thorn 
Deeply pierced His weary brow. 

I have come with spices now 
To place upon Him. He is gone, 
Rolled away the heavy stone. 

Stranger, radiantly white, 

Did you watch here thro the night? 




POEMS OF RELIGION 


45 


“Mary!” O my Master’s voice, 
Breaking heart, rejoice—rejoice ! 
Fair and Radiant One, ’tis Thee, 
Crucified on Calvary! 

O Raboni, standing there 
With a halo on Your hair, 

Like a candle burning white 
Thro the gloom and death of night, 
With the glory on Your face 
Transfiguring this holy place! 



46 


POEMS OF RELIGION 


MARY, THE MOTHER—TO JESUS 


My little son, Emmanuel, sleep sweetly on my 
breast, 

With haloed head against my heart in sacred 
slumber prest. 

O blessed day that gives you birth, and blessed 
mother I— 

Holding within my humble arms the Son of the 
Most High! 

I am most blest of human kind, Jehovah has made 
me 

The mother of a Royal King, Child of Divinity! 

Sleep, pillowed on my joyous heart, O sweet 
Emmanuel, 

The rapture that Thy mother knows mortals can 
never tell. 

The velvet touch of Thy small hand, Thy cheek 
against my face, 

Curving pink limbs and dimpled arms—perfected 
infant grace! 

Sweet Son of Heaven, Peaceful Dove, Music and 
Shining Light, 

Wonderful Emmanuel—rest on my heart tonight! 




POEMS OF RELIGION 


47 


IMPATIENCE 


My little child came rushing in from play, 

Calling me many times. I tried to say, 

“I’m ready, child, and glad to do 
Just anything that’s reasonable for you.” 

But so intent upon his own sweet whim, 

He never heard or heeded when I answered him. 
He rushed thro the garden calling me, 

Pausing at last. I spoke; he failed to hear or see. 

A volley of hot words sprang from his heart, 
“Mother not here—failing her part!” 

Pent up passion and ungranted child-desire 
Kindled in his breast a flaming fire. 

Ah, how like children we rush to His feet; 

We call, and every call He’d meet 
With, “I am here, my child, eager to do 
What seemeth best. Be calm; in time I’ll answer 
you.” 

Too impatient to await His sweet reply, 

We hasten on—unheeding—wondering why 
He failed us when we called upon His name; 
Stubborn and rebellious, giving God the blame. 




48 


POEMS OF RELIGION 


O HAIL SWEET DAY 


O hail, sweet day of heavenly peace, 
That gives to me the smile 
And handclasp of those loved long since 
And lost a little while. 

Glad day of promises fulfilled 
When fetters fall away, 

When soars my spirit, heaven-thrilled. 
O hail, celestial day! 

O hail, my Savior, who has watched 
And guided thro the years, 

Whose hand has intimately touched 
My wounds and dried my tears; 
Whose argent presence laved my soul 
With calm and heavenly light, 
Shedding its lustre over me 
When fell the hour of night. 

No visualized earthly dream 
That ever had been mine 
Portrayed such scenes of rapturous joy 
Such ecstasy divine— 

The radiant heavenly chorus sings 
A symphony that yearns 
A welcome to my heaven-born soul— 
“Behold, His own returns!” 




POEMS OF RELIGION 


49 


HIS CARE 


“Fear ye not, therefore, ye are of more 
value than many sparrows.” 

On yonder hill a flowering tree 
And a nesting bird are calling me. 

I brush away the dew-drenched grass 
And fragrant clover as I pass, 

Eager to stand in the sweet scented shade, 
To touch the nest the birds had made. 

I hear the bird’s disturbed cry 

As I stand beneath the tree close by. 

Hushed the sweet vibrating trill, 

The fluttering of wings is still. 

Hovered over the birds in the nest, 

O, blessed sheltering mother breast! 

Ah, He who knows the sparrow’s fall, 

Has heeded, sheltered as I call, 

Enfolded me beneath His wing, 

Made my heart rejoice and sing. 

Whatever I am—wherever I be, 

He comforteth and watcheth me. 




50 


POEMS OF RELIGION 


THE DESERT GUIDE 


Exhausted with the desert thirst and heat, 
Hopelessly lost I laid me down to die, 

Too parched my tongue to utter one lone cry, 
The cruel desert chained my burning feet. 

1 lay tormented on the scorching sand, 

A fitful sleep possessed my blinded eyes, 
Dreams of oases—like a paradise, 

Dreams of the cool touch of a healing hand. 

A cup of water held to me to drink, 

Then withdrawn before it touched my lips; 

Or else I thought my burning finger tips 
Just rested on a cool spring’s mossy brink. 

Conscious—my heart’s petition was for death, 
The fountain of my tears I had drained dry; 

I slept again—who was that standing by? 

Did I feel on my face a cooling breath? 




POEMS OF RELIGION 


51 


With super-strength I lifted from the sand 

(O strange that my blind eyes again could see.) 
Written this inscription: “Follow me,” 

By some concealed and unfamiliar hand. 

As I looked I saw strange foot-prints lead 
Across the desert feared and hated so. 

A still voice bade me “Follow where they go. 
And you shall find at last your every need.” 

I arose and stumbled on. It was not far, 

The sound of flowing waters reached my ears; 
Again the calm voice bade me “Have no fears,” 
A hand passed me a flowing water jar. 

Morpheus kissed my tired eyes again, 

I saw in my enchanted vision there 
An argent presence—gloriously fair, 
Obliviating acrid thirst and pain. 



52 


POEMS OF RELIGION 


THE PILOT 


My little craft lies waiting on the sands beside the 
sea, 

Waiting for the rising tide slow-creeping in to me. 

The sails are set and ready for the Pilot’s sure 
command 

To begin the evening journey to a coveted, far 
land. 

I hear a sigh, the murmur of the waves far, far 
away, 

I hear the sea birds calling as they skim and dip 
and play; 

The twilight sounds are blended as the distant 
hum of bees, 

Like the south wind laughing in the springtime in 
the trees. 




POEMS OF RELIGION 


53 


Now the waves roll shoreward and my small craft 
takes its place, 

The tide is full, I lift my eyes to see the Pilot’s 
face. 

“Yea, sails are set and ready, waiting, Master, 
shall we go ?” 

Now we are bearing out to sea, the tide is full and 
slow. 

At last my craft is anchored in the harbor near the 
shore, 

The night was dark, the waves were wild, but 
storm can harm no more. 

Stand near me, gracious Pilot, let me kiss the nail- 
scarred Hand 

That steered me safe to anchor on the long-sought 
heavenly strand. 



54 


POEMS OF RELIGION 


GOD CALLED 


Lovingly dedicated to my father, 

The weight of burdens had worn you, 

The day had been lonesome and long, 

The heart that ever was patient and true 
Had wearied of singing Life’s song. 

The candle that flamed with a golden glow, 
Giving so gladly its light, 

Had burned ’til the wick was charred and low, 
And it was the hour of night. 

He who knoweth the sparrow’s fall 
Then bade you cross the bay— 

Unquestioning you answered the call 
And silently sailed away. 

We caught a glimpse on your peaceful face 
As you left us here on the shore, 

The look of the wanderer who’d found his place 
And entered his own home door. 




POEMS OF RELIGION 


55 


Calmly you waited the summons that came 
At the end of your well-spent day; 

Tho life to you was a gallant game 

And you entered four-square in the play. 

You lived—You loved—You gave so much 
From the store of your patient heart, 

The sympathetic human touch 
Was ever your faithful part. 

The simple, tho truly great things of life, 

A Faith, Love and Charity creed 
Made you the master of sordid strife 
In your daily speech and deed. 

You eagerly proffered the strength of your hand 
When you saw your fellow-man downed, 
Taking the time to understand, 

Tho your life was a busy round. 

Ah, my beloved, shall I count the loss 
When I know you are weary no more, 

When exchanged for a crown is the long-borne 
cross? 

Nay,—rest well on that shining shore. 

I shall see you again with peace on your face, 
With the smile that in parting you wore, 

With the look of the wanderer, who, finding his 
place, 

Has entered his own home door! 







POEMS OF 
SENTIMENT AND 
ASPIRATION 







THERE’S A LIGHT IN YOUR EYE 


There’s a light in your eye, there’s a rose on your 
cheek, 

That I have not seen there before. 

There’s a musical note in your voice when you 
speak, 

While your spirit is earth-bound no more. 

The look in your eye is of the dreamer who’s 
found 

Life’s pageant of dreams coming true, 

Who has soared as on wings, broken fetters that 
bound 

The song in the glad heart of you. 

Sing with life ! What of storms? Are not clouds 
ever drifting 

That sunshine and shadow the earth may re¬ 
joice? 

On Time’s eternal shore, with the sands’ ceaseless 
shifting 

Shines the light in your eyes, lilts your musical 
voice. 



60 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND ASPIRATION 


THE TIRED STAR 


I am weary of all the glitter and glare, 

The song, the dance, the mechanical smile, 

I long, God, I long to go somewhere 
To live in peace for awhile! 

Disgusted I am with things that men say 

As they herd like swine at my dressing-room 
door; 

I want to curse them and drive them away, 

To look in their faces no more. 

I loathe the noise of this uncertain path, 

The game that I loved I have found but a cheat; 

I yearn in my soul for an aftermath, 

A shelter, a home, a retreat. 

The tinsel and glare will do for awhile, 

When one bears the colorful banner of youth, 

But plaster and paint will break with a smile, 
And age is too candid with truth. 




POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND ASPIRATION 61 


One cannot die because he is tired 

Of playing a part in a great losing game, 

But when with the years one becomes less admired, 
Why, the stage ever loves a new name. 

When broken at last and bowed in the dust 
And the spirit of youth, like a ghost, haunts the 
past, 

One plays the harder to earn his crust 
’Til they drop his name from the cast. 



62 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND ASPIRATION 


KEEPER OF THE PRISON 


Keeper of the prison, 

Waiting by the gate, 

My singing soul has risen; 

O I am satiate 
Of lurid walls and dreary, 
Weighty clay and dust. 
Fettered, abject, weary 

Of clanking chains that rust. 

O keeper of the prison, 

With walls forboding, bare, 

A mutineer I’ve risen, 

Thought you to bind me there ? 




POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND ASPIRATION 63 


ADVENTURE 


I had an hour on the mountain 
Where visions stir and thrill, 

Where Adventure’s voice called “Make your 
choice, 

Is it in your soul to stand still 

When the world is throbbing with action 

And brave men are daring to do? 

I breathe my spirit in your veins, 

I lay my hands on you. 

Behold, I claim you my valiant son, 

Go—spend your strength ’til the fight is won!”. 

By night she perched on my pillow, 

By day she walked with me, 

In the vibrant sound of her voice I found 
Her challenged ecstacy. 

’Til for her I would brave the tropical sun 
Or the frozen Arctic Sea. 

For Fame I would not give a shilling, 

Wealth is a transient thing; 

But to fight for a goal with an ardent soul, 

To feel in accomplishing 
Recompense for all danger 
In the perilous deed you have won, 

Symbolizing the spirit 

That challenged and labelled you “Son.” 




64 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND ASPIRATION 


BEHOLD THE DAWN! 


As I slept a woman came to me, 

Wearing in her face purposeful determination, 
The tragedy of much suffering, 

The light of universal motherhood. 

Following in her wake were the children of men, 
Their garments soiled and frayed. 

They lifted yearning arms and tragic eyes, 

Mutely bespeaking their sorrow and their need. 

She spoke, “I am Womanhood-of-the-World; 
Through agony, travail and death 
Have these children, flesh of my flesh, 

Blood of my blood, come to know life. 

They cling to my garments and fret hungrily 
For the nurture of my breast, 

For the strength of my spirit, 

For the healing touch of my hand. 

“Behold them, aliens of Happiness, 

Pity them, children of Ignorance, 

Uplift them, victims of Circumstance. 

I have given my strength and life for such! 

They are mine, this weary multitude, 

Wise with age in their infancy! 

Arise from your dreams of indolent ease— 

The Dawn sings in the glowing east! 




POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND ASPIRATION 65 


“Behold the day—a day of glorious 
And manifold opportunity, 

A day in which you may serve, that generations 
Following shall arise and call you ‘Blessed’— 

The clarion challenge is to you. 

What matters self if in some future time 
The world he made safe for Democracy, 

Safe for the God eternal in the heavens? 

“Break the shackles that fetter the weak, 

The ignorant, the ungodly; 

Shake off the chains of slumber, 

Hold high and higher still 

That flaming torch that shall illumine 

And uplift. Be strong of soul. 

Be firm of faith, be fervent of prayer— 

Woman—behold the Dawn !” 



66 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND ASPIRATION 


THE SONG OF THE QUAINT 
LITTLE HAT 


To Antionette 

There’s a quaint little hat on the old hall tree 
That has a way of mocking me. 

It seems to call as I pass to and fro, 

As on my busy rounds I go, 

“Where, O where, has she gone away; 

How long a time do you think she will stay? 

“I hang out here in the dust alone, 

Feeling depressed; I sigh and moan 
For the face I shaded from the glare, 

For the sweet pillow of soft brown hair; 
Brown eyes flashing beneath my brim, 

The lithe young form so cunningly trim. 

“I miss the song the red lips sung, 

The laughter that from the glad heart sprung. 
I want again the small white hand 
To swing me by my rainbow band. 

Few will believe such a thing to be true— 

A quaint little hat—a-missing you!” 




POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND ASPIRATION 67 


UNDERSTANDING 


I fancy that some day 

Beside life’s flowing river where they play 
Their harps of gold and sing their songs 
Of Paradise, one finds where he belongs. 

Then underneath some drooping willow tree 
Writes, paints, or sings in ecstasy. 

At last his craftsmanship has become fair! 
Mingling with his kind, breathing the air 
Enraptured, thrilled with eternal life, 

His theme grows to perfection. There is no strife 

Where God has called His own 

To assemble and be glorified beside His throne. 

From heaven one does not look 

Back upon the pages of life’s discarded book, 

And realize how trite the things that seemed 
worthwhile 

Along the way. Heaven brightens at God’s smile; 
For well He understands who tried, and in what 
mood, 

Out of His Father-heart He proclaims their ef¬ 
forts good. 




68 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND ASPIRATION 


Some whom we labelled “Failure” will be among 
that throng 

Beside the river. The things we had judged wrong 
And foolish will then seem right and wise, 
Because none will behold, save the kindly eyes 
Of those who seek the beautiful and true, 

Who look beneath the surface for things at which 
you 

And I had tried our childish skill; 

At last we’ll understand a heavenly will. 

Then as we sing our songs enraptured grow— 
And by the melody the heavenly hosts will know 
That even on earth our lowly tasks were good, 
But only God and heaven understood. 

Who wept and thought they worked and prayed 
in vain, 

Will find fulfillment of their dreams, heaven’s re¬ 
frain 

Will glorify the ones who tried to do 
As best they could, the task that they believed 
God meant them to. 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND ASPIRATION 69 


THE SPINNER 


The spider having spun seems satisfied 
As pendulous he sits in silent pride, 

Nor hails his fellow-spinner passing by 
With boast of delicate pearl-ropes hung high 
Against the splendor of the lordly sun. 

He sits enshrined in jewelled gossamer spun 
According to the nature of his dream, 

Indifferent that beaded jewels gleam 
A miracle of intricate design. 

It must be, ah it must be, some divine 
Spark was breathed into his heart the day he crept 
From out the dismal shadows where he slept 
’Til the Creator called him forth to be. 

Oh, lowly Spinner, teach thine art to me! 




70 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND ASPIRATION 


Teach me to find content in hours of toiling, 
Your vision share with me as I sit moiling 
At life’s steady-turning spinning wheel, 
Teach me to dream of sunlight as I feel 
My way thro gloom when it is hard to see 
The share of spinning that is meant for me. 
Perhaps because you do the allotted task 
In diligence and faith, nor pause, nor ask 
What happens to you after toil and night, 
Knowing the dawn has never failed you light. 

Did you know, spinner, that the crystal dew 
Would, in the dark, play fairy prince to you, 
Hanging these jewels in a mystic blaze? 

I have the promise of eternal days, 

Celestial heaven in a diademed sky 
Yet you—you spin more perfectly than I. 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND ASPIRATION 71 


MY CANDLE 


Dedicated to Mrs. Loula Smith Willingham 

I have my candle lighted — at both ends softly 
burning, 

It cannot last through all the night—my heart is 
praying, yearning 

For multitudes that pass my door, each clamoring 
for light 

To guide them, give assurance through the long 
and tedious night. 

One end must needs keep burning for the loving 
ones at home, 

The other trimmed and glowing for the comfort¬ 
less that roam, 

Afraid of dark, afraid to try their fragile wings 
so weak, 

Afraid to lift their voices to the passing throng, to 
speak. 




72 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND ASPIRATION 


And so, O little candle, my heart must pray and 
yearn, 

I dare not sleep too long, or well, lest you should 
cease to burn. 

Ah, should you flicker feebly, burn low and sputter 
out, 

I’d stretch my arms out into gloom and put them 
close about 

My children who are calling, with voices faint and 
small. 

Shine brightly, little candle, or do not shine at all; 

My soul craves no half measure, burn while you 
last, burn true, 

I’m wearying, and watching, and yearning over 
you. 

When at last you flicker, fade to shine no more 

From the wayside house that kept you a-lighted at 
the door, 

Those whom you guided through the night will 
say through falling tears, 

“The candle’s white reflection shall illumine all my 
years!” 



POEMS IN DIALECT 





SLEEPY SONG 


Come here, Piccaninny, honey, 

Git into yo’ mammy’s lap. 

Bless ’im, little black-eyed sonny, 

Pick ’im up an’ tote ’im, Pap. 

Mammy’s got yo’ little nightie, 

Fixed de covers on yo’ bed, 

Kase yo’ sho looks lak a mighty 
Tired nigger, sleepy-head. 

Put yo’ arm aroun’ my neck tight, 

Lay yo’ head upon my breast. 

Ef yo’ done a thing whut ain’t right, 
No need to go to bed to rest. 

Better say yo’ prayers, my honey, 
Mebbe angels bendin’ down 

Will take de prayer o’ mammy’s sonny 
To do Lord. Put on dis gown! 

Does yo’ hear de rain a-fallin’ 
Pit-a-patter on de roof? 

Dat’s de sleepy-man a-callin’, 

Sho, my honey, dat’s de truf! 

Does yo’ hear sheep-bells a-ringin’? 

Is yo’ counted all de sheep? 

Lordee, I is tired a-singin’, 

Pappy, dis here nigger’s sleep. 



76 


POEMS IN DIALECT 


AIN’T GWINE WORRY! 


Ain’t gwine worry myself to death, 

’Tain’t no use. 

Folks gwine always waste dey breath 
Heapin’ up abuse. 

May be me—or it may be you, 

But I don’t give hang whut you do, 

Folks gwine say dat somethin’ is wrong. 

I ain’t gwine worry! 

Worked like a dawg to raise my crop, 

’Tain’t no use. 

Done made up my min’ to stop 
An’ I offers no excuse. 

De wheat got de rust an’ de weevil got de cotton, 

All de taters in de hill took an’ rotten; 

Folks kin talk an’ say whut dey please, 

I ain’t gwine worry! 

Ole ’oman fuss kase I don’t hurry, 

’Tain’ t no use, 

Might as well make up her min’ not to worry, 
Kase I done plumb refuse 

To work myself to death no mo’ 

Kase yo’ gwine do wrong—dat’s one thing sho, 
An’ yo’ ain’t gwine please nobody no-how— 

I ain’t gwine worry! 




POEMS OF 


CHILDHOOD 





THE WAY OF THE CHILD 


‘‘Won’t you take me in your lap?” 

Said a tired little chap, 

To a mother who was as busy as could be. 
She had framed her lips to say, 

“No, my darling, run away!” 

Pausing—suddenly she found 

Little grimy fingers wound 

About her own. O why not leave the task? 

There is always work to do. 

“Yes, my darling, I’ll take you!” 

Nestle closely, little chap, 

In your tired mother’s lap, 

A little while you’ll be too big to hold. 

Just a little while you stay, 

Then the world calls you away. 



80 


POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 


CHOICE GIFTS 


I’d rather have a little head upon my breast at 
close of day, 

Than fairest, rarest of bouquets gleaned from the 
choicest flowers of May. 

Or closely wound about my neck a pair of little 
dimpled arms 

Than strands of amethyst or jade, brilliant of hue 
and rich of charms. 

I’d rather have two rosy hands to reach and softly 
touch my face 

Than hold the scepter of a queen or fill her royal 
place. 

I’d rather have red baby lips, a child’s prayer for 
me said 

Than all the sermons I have heard, or long prayers 
preachers prayed. 




POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 


81 


TENEMENT CHILDREN 


They are lifting their pale young faces, 

Their sorrowful eyes look at me 
From the gloom of their joyless places, 
Calling reproachfully, 

“Can you not see we are dying 
A death that is tortuous, slow?” 

O, how will you be replying 
As on your way you go? 

“The sunshine is faded and dreary 
That falls on the window sill, 

We are listless and weary, 

Drab and lifeless and still. 

Our shoulders are stooped with the bearing 
Of burdens we are too young to bear, 

We have grown old with the caring 

For things for which we should not care. 




82 


POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 


“We lift our thin arms to the heavens, 
Tho we do not know how to pray, 

So little care has been given 

Our starved souls from day to day. 

We pause at our old tasks crying, 

(What good does it do us to cry?) 

For the birds that are singing and flying, 
For cloud-ships sailing by. 

“For the grass waving green by the river, 
Winds fretting soft and low. 

Are we to go on weeping, never 

These beautiful earth things to know?” 

They are lifting their hopeless faces, 

Their reproachful eyes haunting me, 

Challenging from their dark places, 

‘As ye did it unto Me!’ ” 



POEMS 


OF PORTRAITURE 



THE INDIAN DANCER 


If I only had a crimson shawl 

With a frieze and gold fringe on it, 

I would not wish for clothes at all, 

For shoes or a tiresome bonnet. 

A string of vari-colored beads 
Would help to satisfy my needs. 

I would like a bracelet wrought of gold, 

Jade earrings, a jewelled old 
Comb for my straight black hair, 

The world for a stage. It is little I care 
For the gorgeous robes of a royal queen, 

I would ask instead a tambourine, 

The sheltering arms of a swaying tree, 
Star-dust and moonbeam the footlights to be, 
The appraising voices of winds to blow 
Wild tunes for me. It is little you know 
Of what it takes to satisfy 
The singing heart of such as I. 



86 


POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


GYPSY LASS 


By the highway I sit and watch them pass, 
Hear them saying, “A gypsy lass 
With slender limbs, feet brown and bare, 
Heavy braids of shining hair, 

A gay kerchief about her head, 

Yellow basque and skirt of red. 

She is so lovely, what a pity 

She can’t live as we, in a house, in the city!” 

From the pear tree’s shade I listen and smile 
That they pity me. Could they for awhile 
Walk the glad earth with winged feet, 

Being one with the rain, the snow, the sleet, 
Held in the masterful arms of the wind, 
Feeling the earth, pulsating, kind, 

One with the darkness of the night, 

Mingled with dawn and morning-star light, 
Dancing barefoot in the cool white sand, 

One with the spirit of the land! 




POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


87 


1 smile to think they pity me 
Who understands the heart of a tree, 

The silence of lakes, the brook’s small chatter, 
The waterfall’s thunder, its spray and spatter. 
They would never be satisfied more 
In a covered house with a heavy door, 

Could they live for awhile under open skies, 
With the living God before their eyes. 



88 


POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


THE SUICIDE’S SON 


Little Steven sobbed, he, did not cry, 

I wished he would. His troubled eyes were dry. 
Rocking his little body to and fro 
He quaveringly voiced a long-drawn “O-oh!” 
Expressive of his grief. With yearning heart I 
wept, 

Then sought to comfort him. The while I kept 
My arm about his shoulder, young and small, 

He heeded not my presence or the call 
Of his name. He was so bewildered, upset 
His universe. I never shall forget 
The sorrow in his face, as plaintively he said, 

To himself, “My Daddy-man is dead. 

My Mother cries and doesn’t notice me. 
Everything is strange as it can be.” 

O, little boy, just past your six short years, 

Too deeply hurt to shed relieving tears, 

Your childish mind too young to grasp 
The sympathetic word or kind hand-clasp; 
Indifferent to proffered consolation, 

Stunned by the sudden immolation 
Of childhood’s magnified ideal, 

Groping with the sordid and unreal. 




POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


89 


GRANNY 


She sits there 

With the lamplight falling on her hair, 

Her old hands like white birds flying, 

Silver knitting needles plying. 

As she rocks to and fro, 

Silently her pale lips moving go, 

As though with friend or some relation 
She held eager conversation. 

There is grace— 

A kind of benediction in her face. 

She lifts her eyes, so patient and so mild, 
And rests them on a chubby child 

Playing there 

About her, beautiful and fair. 

He leans lovingly against her knee, 

Inquiring, “Iss dese g’oves for me?” 

With tender smile 

She answers, “Yes, they are for my chile, 
Granny loves that little rascal too.” 

Nestling close he answers, “Yes, ’n I lov’s ’oo!” 





90 


POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


THE RECKLESS DEACON 


“I’m tired to death an’.sick o’ life, 

An’ everything in it. The ghastly strife 

O’ livin’ an’ tryin’ to half-way do 

Your dooty is gettin’ on my nerves, I’m thro 

With being respectable. I shall drink 

An’ carouse an’ kick the dust from the brink 

O’ the grave an’ bear the consequence. I’ll tell 

The dog-gone world there’s a little o’ hell 

In livin’ an’ strugglin’ right here, 

The price o’ heaven is too dear!” 

So raved the deacon of the church. 

(Poor tired old man) it wasn’t much 
He could do, being seventy-two years old; 

But he, with vandal spirit, sold 
His horse and buggy, bought a car, 

Never was known to drive it far, 

(“For fear o’ accident or bein’ killed.”) 

He almost fainted when they spilled 
A spoonful of gasoline on the tire; 

He shouted, “Hell, man, a little fire 
Would blow this thing’s high as the sky! 

Careful—careful—who wants to die?” 




POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


91 


CONSOLATION? 


Lou, Ella Jones, if I was you 
I would find somethin’ else to do 
Besides weepin’ night an’ day 
For Bascom Jones. That’s no way 
To help yourself. As I can see 
You’re sight better off! Listen to me, 

I’m sorry for you—have always been, 

I love you like my own blood kin, 

But I know who it was made the livin’, 
Worked like a slave, always givin’ 

Bascom more than you could spare, 

While he took life easy. He didn’t care 
What you had to wear or eat, 

He would swagger down the street 
Like a game cock in a barnyard fight. 

Now you stop grievin’—it ain’t right 
For you to wear yourself out cryin’ 

An’ moanin’ for him that’s lyin’ 

Out there in that graveyard dead. 

Why, he didn’t even provide bread 
Enough for his children. He’d take the rent, 
Money you saved cent by cent, 

After you struggled night an’ day, 

Never did treat you right no-way. 




92 


POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


Strange to me when a man dies 
They always praise him to the skies. 
“Kind husband—affectionate father!” 
The Lord knows I would rather 
Hear about the dead, the truth. 

Why don’t they say, “From his youth 
He was a devil, reckless, wild, 

He swore an’ cussed an’ drank an’ piled 
Up debts for his honest wife to pay?” 
You put that mournin’ veil away, 

Lou Ella Jones, if I was you 
I’d find some kind o’ work to do! 



POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


93 


MODERNISM 


Indeed you are going to the dance! 

Why shouldn’t you? 

You mope so—you disgust me thru 
and thru. 

What if you did send Allison 
away? 

He was intolerable—we couldn’t 
let him stay! 

He had no diplomacy and was a 
perfect bore, 

Never took you any place, my dear, and 
what is more 

Gave you just a mere pittance 
to spend 

For pleasure and for clothes—you know 
I’ve had to lend 

You money time and time again. 

I say “no,” 

The world is full of better men. 

Let him go! 

Love him? Bah! The absurd 
idea—love. 

With all the real sport of life? 

Heavens above, 




94 


POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


One has to have one’s pleasures, 
and of course, 

The incidentals. Why, my dear, to me 
divorce 

Is the apex of enlightened 
civilization. 

I should go insane were it not 
for the realization 

I could go to your father any time 
and say, 

“I have become bored living with you— 

I wish to go away— 

Out to Reno. Give me a few hundred 
for the trip.” 

I would take the money, buy new 
clothes, and skip! 

In course of time I should return, 
set a new pace 

For the crowd. Don’t look so distressed. 
Your face 

Is grayer than a cloudy winter 
day. 

Wear the gold and emerald dress— 

Now run away 

To Celeste. She will dress you for 
the dance tonight, 

You will recover from your love-madness 
all right! 



POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


95 


THE PRAYER OF MRS. J. WITHERSBY 
ST GEORGE 


Dear Lord, I am quite tired tonight, 

I feel and look a perfect fright. 

O, this has been a horrid day, 

So many of my friends away 
It’s hard to find enough to do 
Of interest the long day through. 

My party was a failure flat, 

I blame John and the kids for that, 

They were so stupid and so slow, 
Forgive them—they provoke me so! 

I’m tired of bridge and everything, 

I feel much better in the spring, 

The summer always whips me down, 
Especially if I’m in town. 

So many things I would adore 
To ask of Thee. Lord, I implore 
You, help dear John make this new trade, 
It will lay Jack Chester in the shade; 
Adele Chester’s such a cat, 

Copied my new Parisian hat, 

Bought a new fur coat like mine last fall, 
And snubbed me at the annual ball. 




96 


POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


I want to do my duty, Lord, 

You understand me. Upon my word, 
This is a trying life to live, 
Everywhere I go it’s “give”— 

Give to that and give to this, 

It seems, O Lord, they never miss 
Telling all their ins and outs, 

Really, Lord, I am in doubts 
If anything I hear be true. 

I am leaning hard on You, 

I’m glad I have no grievious sin 
To ask forgiveness of—Amen! 



POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


97 


THE PRAYER OF WIDOW MAGREW 


Dear Lord, I am too tired to say 
A decent prayer at close o’ day, 

But knowin’ how You understan’, 

I’m reachin’ up to touch Your han’. 
Don’t think I’m aimin’ to complain 
O’ bein’ poor. Just give the main 
Necessities o’ life, mostly give 
Me courage to go on, to try to live. 
Lord, provide strength an’ work to do, 
Keep me dutiful an’ true. 

Help me to teach my orphaned brood 
To be respectin’, strong an’ good. 

I want to teach them if I may 
To live their best from day to day. 

I scrub an’ sew to keep them clean 
An’ fair well fed. I don’t mean 
To dress them up an’ have them fine, 
But realizing they are mine, 

My great responsibility 

Keeps me a-askin’ things o’ Thee. 




98 


POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


If Jim had lived I wouldn’t ask 
So much o’ Thee. It ain’t the task, 

I don’t mind work, but times when food 
Is scarce, it’s hard, Lord, to be good. 

When the cold wind noses in an’ growls, 

An’ the wolf stands at the door an’ howls, 
It’s then I beg, O Lord, to see 
An’ feel You fatherin’ my three. 

I’m lookin’ to You, Lord, my Frien’, 

You understan’, I’m tired—Amen. 



POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


99 


THE HEATHEN WOMAN TO HER GOD 


(“Come over into Macedonia and help us.” 
Acts 16:9) 

Prostrate before thee in the dust my weary self I 
lay, 

Broken and anguished, my heart must find solace, 
so I pray: 

Immovable and honored god, I lift my prayer to 
thee, 

Behold me, ragged and unshod, my soul in jeop¬ 
ardy! 

Thy graven face is turned from me, yea ever, al¬ 
ways turned 

Out into space, impassively. An outcast am I— 
spurned. 

I weep and wail, tear my strong hair and grovel 
on the ground, 

Spending my strength in useless prayer, no peace 
—no peace is found. 




100 


POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


If fathoming my breaking heart thy power could 
release, 

I would give my living flesh, ransom for hope and 
peace. 

The tropic sun has seared my back and dulled my 
aching brain— 

Still comfortless, I take the track that leads to 
home again. 

Home? A thatched and empty hut to house thro 
empty years 

Old memories that lash and cut and scar with 
scalding tears. 

Prostrate before thee in the dust my weary self I 
lay, 

I beat upon my breast and weep the empty years 
away. 



POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


101 


THE PRODIGAL 


My father understood me when I said, 

“I’m sorry, Father, but I’d as soon be dead 
As living out my young days in this place!” 

I saw a little shadow cross his face, 

But he looked me calmly in the eye, 

Sighed and made a comforting reply: 

“All right, my son, I’m sorry as can be, 

But I wouldn’t have you stay account of me. 

If go you must I shall give to you 
Part of the heritage which is your due, 

That you may go with means on which to live.” 
He argued nor lectured, but did give 
To me, as elder son, my part. 

(God bless a father’s understanding heart.) 

A moment I wished I had not spoken so, 

But my word was given—I would go! 

I had always longed to see what lay 
Concealed in that great city ’cross the bay. 
Always in my heart there was desire to see 
The wonders of the earth. A dream with me 
Was—I should go—O far away, 

Make fame and fortune, then one day 
Return triumphant. How proud would be my 
father, glad 

To call himself the sire of such a lad! 




102 


POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


I went first to Jerusalem to see 
Just what a city held in store for me. 

Beauty and pleasure beckoned me to come, 

They coaxed, they loved, with them I made my 
home. 

I drifted like a petal in a stream, 

My father’s house became a distant dream. 

Wine, women, pleasure, sin untold 
Enslaved me. Recklessly I sold 
Myself to vice and crime. 

Sprawling, wallowing in the ooze and slime 
Of utmost degradation. A self-willed outcast, 
lost 

To erstwhile good instincts—and O the cost! 

My goodly substance wasted, all I had 
Was gone—no food, no home, and I so poorly 
clad 

No man would give me work to do. When I would 
ask 

Each time the same reply, “This task 
Will take a steady and a trusty hand.” 

Was there on earth no one to understand 
My need and shame? My sin-seared life was in 
my face, 

For such as I there seemed to be no place. 



POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


103 


One day I hired to tend a herd of hateful swine. 
In the open, under God’s kind skies, the home 
once mine 

Kept haunting me. As my vision cleared, 

Old associations became endeared 
To my heart. How beautiful to me 
Became the red sloped roof and the mimosa 
tree— 

I beat upon my sinful breast and prayed 
Forgiveness for the ill-spent years I’d strayed 
Away in sin. My heart cried, “Go, poor wander¬ 
er, go 

Back to thy father’s house.” And so 
Repenting, I made the journey, I went home again 
In deep humiliation. O the agonizing pain, 

As conscience lashed and kept me bound 
Like one demon-possessed; I groveled on the 
ground. 



104 


POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


While I was yet some distance from the home, 
My father came to meet me, saying, “Come 
My poor, tired child, I see you need me now!” 
He lifted and embraced me, kissed my brow, 

My cheek, and tremblingly wept. 

As we walked into the gates of home he kept 
His aging arm about me and to the curious serv¬ 
ants said, 

“Behold he has returned whom I thought dead! 
Bid him welcome. Go, and to the neighbors say, 
Come to my house, we make a feast today!” 

I lifted up my heart—peace and forgiveness had 
come 

Like heaven, in my father’s home—sweet home! 



POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


105 


A VETERAN’S REVERIE 

Dedicated to the U. D. C. 
(Cabiness Chapter, Forsyth, Ga.) 


I turned my gaze to the skies grown gray, 
Where a lone star signaled the passing day. 
Away in the distance the white smoke curled 
Like a banner of peace in the air unfurled. 

I heard a thrush call soft and low, 

To the mate in the nest, on the plain below. 
Children’s voices I heard somewhere, 
Ringing sweet and clear on the evening air. 
Then I looked on the city of honored dead 
Beneath the greening hillside spread. 

As I dreamed there in the twilight deep 
My soul was stirred. I could but weep 
For those who sleep beneath that hill, 
Through sun and dew and starlight still. 
There, graves that bearing no man’s name, 
Are monuments to southern fame! 

The place is sacred—hill and plain 
Where sleep the South’s heroic slain! 

I seem to see in the fading day 
The passing regiment of gray. 




106 


POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


I seem to hear the thundering drum 
As down the street the soldiers come. 

The band plays “Dixie” once again, 

The crowd grows drunk with the refrain! 
House-holds flock into the street 
And laugh and weep with those they meet. 
How soft and bright and new and gray, 
The coats of those who march away! 

How brave their faces as they go, 
Baptized in prayer, to meet the foe. 

And when the last of them is gone, 

The South is still and stript and shorn; 
Women sit with bated breath, 

Awaiting with the calm of death 
For Victory, perhaps for Woe. 

Ah, God, how slowly hours go ! 

How they toil, and how they pray 
That God will guide their men each day, 
And keep them brave and strong and true, 
In all this hell they’re living through. 



POEMS OF PORTRAITURE 


107 


Months pass and years. War is no more. 
Red ruin stalks from shore to shore! 

Who bright-eyed into battle went 
Return forlorn and sorely spent. 

Those who fared forth unafraid 
Come home disconsolate, dismayed. 

Gallant heroes! Brave of heart! 

They square their shoulders, gain a start 
And from the ruin, muck and mire 
Build up a glorious empire! 

These comrades sleeping on yon hill 
Remind us of a duty still. 

Hold high that holy burning brand, 

Yea, pass it on from hand to hand, 

So long as earth and time shall be 
Keep reverently their memory! 

They’re filing past—these men in gray, 

Soon they will all have gone away. 

They leave their foot-prints red with gore 
On the sands of Time’s immortal shore. 






POEMS OF PLACES 





STILL HOUSE 


I used to say I wanted a house that was quiet and 
still, 

With red geraniums blooming upon the window 
sill, 

A great gray cat purring on the rug before the fire, 

A still house, a quiet house was my young heart’s 
desire. 

I had no time for pleasure, I scarce had time to 
pray, 

The home cares kept me busy while the full years 
slipt away. 

I grew weary rushing at school-time, with de¬ 
mands for a dress or a blouse 

Impatient with the confusion and noise of my too- 
small house. 

Time passed and the children left home as all 
young birds leave the nest, 

To try their wings, to sing new songs in fields that 
suit them best. 

An atmosphere of quiet has crept in like a mouse 

And I sit here and strain my ears for the sound of 
a song in my house. 



112 


POEMS OF PLACES 


I hear them calling “Mother” across the empty 
years, 

I answer from my quiet house, “I’m lonely for 
you, dears.” 

There is a red geranium a-bloom on the window 
sill, 

A pedigreed Angora, and a house that is still, O 
still! 



POEMS OF PLACES 


113 


THE LONESOME HOUSE 


There’s a lonesome house by the side of the road, 
Silent and sad and still. 

The breezes blow the flowers to and fro, 

And the birds in the green trees trill. 

The sunshine and rain and heavenly dew 
Seem trying to keep it fair for you. 

The lonesome house does not seem the same 
Sweet place that I loved so well. 

Its soul is gone—it looks forlorn, 

And gloomier than I can tell. 

Every day I pass the place 

And strain my eyes for your absent face. 

O, the little house by the side of the road 
Is missing you I know, 

Its spirit is true (the symbol of you,) 

It will call you wherever you go. 

Strange it is that you could stay 
From its friendly call from day to day. 




114 


POEMS OF PLACES 


THE WIDOW’S GARDEN 


Have you ever seen the garden 
Of some lonesome woman left 
By her husband and her children 
And her old time friends, bereft 
Of all the intimate attention that an aging woman 
needs? 

I have just seen such a garden 
And a woman tired and worn, 

Her little house seemed desolate, 

Her little garden shorn 

Of its summer beauty, pathetic, frost-smitten, 
slain. 


The fallen garden fence was made 
Of, O just everything, 

The creaky rust-hinged gate was tied up 
With a homespun string. 

And every sprig of mignonette and lavender was 
dead 




POEMS OF PLACES 


115 


Like youthful hopes that blossomed 
In a happy long ago. 

Mignonette and lavender 

Are hearty things you know, 

Yet they were lying drab and dead in brown heaps 
on the ground. 

The owner of the garden 
Came smiling out to me, 

With hospitable greeting— 

I could plainly see 

How pleased she was that I had brought some 
work for her to do. 

I sat down close beside her 
And we talked in woman-wise, 

About the homey things we loved, 

Old gardens, April skies. 

She said, “When spring comes I will plant a lot of 
new things in my garden. 

“I’m ’bliged to have petunias, 

Spice pinks an’ golden glow, 

They seem kinder like the friends 
An’ loves o’ long ago. 

My garden’s got a tired look as tho about to die.” 



116 


POEMS OF PLACES 


And there it was—the listless prey 
Of winter’s frost and freeze. 

I knew in the springtime 
On stiff and aching knees 
She would stir the soil and make her garden sweet 
and beautiful. 

Even now I seem to sense 
The odor, vagrant, sweet, 

Of spice pinks and petunias 

Where the honey-bees would meet 
And ravish roguishly the hearts of those old fash¬ 
ioned flowers. 



POEMS OF LOVE 


AND FRIENDSHIP 





BELOVED, THE SHADOWS OF EVENING 
ARE FALLING 


Beloved, the shadows of evening are falling, 

The night folds the fast-fading day to her 
breast. 

Plaintive and sweetly the song birds are calling, 
And winging them back to the shelter of nest. 
The odor of flowers in the garden you tended 
Is wafted like incense upon the still air, 
Fragrance of roses and white lilies blended 
As though your sweet presence were lingering 
there, 

That you’d bid me come in where your hearth fires 
were burning 

A welcome to those whom your shelter might 
seek, 

I was consumed with unfathomable yearning 
To touch you, beloved, or to hear you speak. 
Then I seek solace in thoughts of tomorrow, 
When mortals return as dust unto dust, 

When all separation and life’s transient sorrow 
Is left like an unneeded, discarded crust. 



120 


POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP 


Why should we weep when the harp strings arc 
broken, 

And silent the instrument touched by loved 
hands, 

When echoes a melody, enduring token, 

Of music transmuted in some fairer lands? 

Lift, sorrowful heart, child of dire desolation, 
Tomorrow will grant your lost treasure again, 
Heaven reward you with sweet consolation, 
Manifold joy out of infinite pain. 

Beloved, beloved, the white stars are gleaming, 
Already the hour of night is on wing. 

Sweet be thy sleep—pleasant thy dreaming, 
Behold it is dawn! Hark the glad angels sing! 



POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP 


121 


RETRIBUTION 


Perhaps you shall come to me again 
Sometime in the after-years, 

When time has dimmed the hurt and pain 
And scars of my scalding tears. 

Sometime—sometime—but who shall say 
Whenever the hour may be 
That you will come to the end of your way 
Seeking solace of me? 

Do you presume that with passing years 
I shall ever forgive 
You who caused me bitter tears, 

After you taught me to live? 

I shall remember—tho centuries past, 

All—all you have meant to me, 

The bitter—the sweet, I shall hold fast 
In my heart through eternity. 




122 


POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP 


You will come to me, weary of roaming about, 
But the door of my house I shall close; 

You will believe I am dead or out, 

(But the time—O nobody knows!) 

I shall close the door of my broken house, 

And pretend I am not at home, 

You will tap-tap-tap—and be still as a mouse 
While you patiently wait for my “Come !” 

I shall laugh if you think I am dead, 

And weep if you think I am gone. 

You will come back begging bread, 

And I—I shall give you a stone! 



POEMS OF LOVE AND FPJENDSHIP 


123 


GOOD-BYE 


Good-bye—good-bye—I have said it 
Because you would have it so; 

You fretted to break the fetters, 

Though you knew I was loath to go. 

Where—where shall my heart find solace, 
A haven of peace and rest? 

I feel the weight of its burden 

Like a thing of steel in my breast. 

Dulled and disillusioned, 

Strangely dead and cold, 

A broken cog in a worn machine 
That before its time grew old. 

You tell me that I must forget you, 

Do you really wish me to? 

Why, every crimson rose I see 
Is a souvenir of you. 




124 


POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP 


When I behold the glory 

Of the clouds when the sun is set, 

I’ll be seeing again our “Castles in Spain”; 

Ah no, I shall never forget! 

All beautiful things will bring memories 
Of cherished hours with you, 

Moonless nights in summer, 

Perfumed and heavy with dew. 

Every dawn with its promise, 

Each errant breeze that blows, 

The tedious hours of winter nights, 

The whiteness and chill of snows. 
Good-bye, my dear, I have said it, 

And are you happier so? 

I can live, somehow, without you, 

But my heart will not let you go. 



POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP 


125 


SEPARATION 


There is a voice in the April dusk, 

In the pungence of the rose and musk 
And lilacs wet with early dew, 

That speaks endearingly of you 
Who shared with me sweet evening times 
In enchanted Southern climes, 

Who revelled in the fragrant air 
With flower petals on your hair, 

Who laughed and loved in the light of the moon 
And complained that it went down too soon. 

The beauty of those April nights 
Was pregnant with the rare delights 
Of perfumed vapors, apple bloom 
Breathing gladness into gloom 
Of shaded wood, greening trees 
Fretted by the vagrant breeze; 

Reminder of that glad springtime 
Of lavender—and thrift and thyme 
Heavy with the fallen dew, 

Heavier my heart for you. 




126 


POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP 


Shall I no more know you here, 

Hold you intimate and dear 

As in other April days 

When we walked Life’s great highways? 

Empty years would roll from me, 

I would smilingly face eternity, 

If only, dear heart, I but knew 
Through time and space you had been true, 
That in the scented April dusk, 

You thrill to lavender and musk. 



POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP 


127 


GOOD-NIGHT 


Good-night, my dear, the evening star is gleaming, 
Soft shadows falling, flicker to and fro, 

The still night calls to sleep and pleasant dream¬ 
ing, 

The homing birds sing sweetly, soft and low. 
How short has been the day, yet you grew tired 
Of sights and sounds that please the ready ear, 
All of God’s lovely things you so admired, 
Treasured, and held infinitely dear. 

Perhaps you spent your eager self in yearning 
For beauty that was solace to your soul; 

You were always hastening and turning 
To add to Life’s full over-flowing bowl. 

In your hands you held the flowers of gladness, 
Joyousness expressed itself in you— 

But in an hour of unwonted sadness 

The petals drooped and faded, falling thro. 




128 


POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP 


Good-night, my dear, I’ll see you in the morning, 
A new star in the shining eastern skies, 

A song, a rose that blossomed in the dawning, 
Opening your sweetly sleeping eyes, 

Beholding the gold glory of Tomorrow, 

Where all things are perfected and made fair— 
You—whom God has spared Life’s every sorrow, 
Will be outstanding in the radiance there. 

Oh, intervening hours may be dreary, 

Yet how kind the night that oft has stilled 
And calmed the burdens of the countless weary 
Multitudes, with full hearts, memory-filled, 
And breaking with the burden of lost treasures, 
That, hoarded for awhile, had slipped away 
When weary grown of Life and transient pleas¬ 
ures, 

Seeking the refuge of eternal day. 

Good-night, my dear! 




POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP 


129 


HOSPITALITY 


Evenin’, Stranger, howdy-do, 

Somethin’ I can do for you? 

’Pears like you air broken down. 

No, sir, you cain’t git to town. 

The road’s a mud hole ever since 

They scraped it. Drive up there longside the fence, 

Guess there’s plenty room to park. 

You jes’ come in, it’s gittin’ dark, 

You couldn’t git to town tonight, 

I’ll put you up an’ give you a bite. 

Why, you’re as welcome as can be 
To stay here an’ break bread with me. 

We’re kinder po-folksy an’ plain, 

But after all, I guess the main 

Thing in life is to give 

The other feller a chance to live. 

I wouldn’t want a man to say 
He broke down at dark an’ couldn’t stay 
The night with me, an’ git the best 
I had to give—in food an’ rest. 

The ole place ain’t so powerful fine, 

But, by gad, stranger, it is mine, 

I love it—You are welcome here, 

Come right in, sir, have a chair. 




130 


POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP 


Make yourself at home—light up an’ smoke. 

Say, ’ve you heard the latest joke 

About the Ford? What is new in politics? 

I can’t ketch on to all the tricks 
These shrewd guys practice now-a-days, 

“Er ole dawg cain’t be learnt new ways.” 
Comfortable? I’m powerful glad, 

Kinder seems as tho I had 
Been a-knowin’ you before, 

You look natchual in my door, 

Kinder glad yer car broke down 
An’ you couldn’t git to town. 

Have a gourd o’ good spring water? 

I enjoy talkin’, but guess I orter 
Be a-showin’ you to bed, 

Quotin’ what ole “Benjy” said, 

“Early to bed an’ early to rise 

Makes a man healthy, wealthy an’ wise.” 

After drivin’ hard all day 

Guess you’re glad ter “hit the hay.” 

Down the hall there—to the right, 

Stranger, God blesss ye, good-night! 



DEDICATORY 


POEMS 











TO THE LAD IN THE TRENCH 


(Spring 1917) 

O lad, brave lad, in the trench over there, 

Facing the smoke and the shell, 

Where are your thoughts when the night comes 
down? 

Tell me, O dear lad, tell! 

Back to the homeland away, far away, 

A little gray mother at close of the day? 

Or a cottage white across the sea, 

A wife—a baby on her knee? 

Or the girl you kissed on the parting day, 

Who watched you through tears proudly march¬ 
ing away? 

O lad, brave lad, whatever you do, 

Wherever you’re fighting today, 

The hearts back home are following you— 

Dear lad, brave lad, and they pray! 



134 


DEDICATORY POEMS 


TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME ROSES 


These lovely roses in this yellow vase 
Keep smiling at me like an old friend’s face. 
Messengers are they to make me glad, 

Reminding me so sweetly that you had, 

Above the turmoil of the crowded day, 

Kind thoughts of me, that you had paused to say, 
“Now I remember her, she does love so 
Every lovely thing that God lets grow.” 

Yes, ah yes, my dear friend, it is true 
They brought me untold joy, but you 
With the loving kindness of your thought 
More joy and beauty than the roses brought; 
You were busy, but you took the time 
To gather flowers for your friend. Sublime 
Is thoughtfulness and sweeter far 
Than fading blossoms in an antique jar! 




DEDICATORY POEMS 


135 


TO THE UNKNOWN HERO 


I bade him God-speed on the parting day, 

When he squared his shoulders and marched away. 
I knew his heart was about to break, 

And his soul was sick at the life he would take. 
From childhood he never could hurt anything, 

He touched with awe the dainty wing 

Of the butterfly. Violets sweet 

Were safe in the grass where fell his feet. 

He believed war a distorted wrong, 

A reptile hideous, venomous, strong! 

He wasn’t a coward—never had been, 

But he had such love for his fellow-men. 

To him they were beings akin to God, 

Ruler, laborer, vagabond, clod. 

Tho he would honestly do his part, 

I knew the fight would break his heart. 




136 


DEDICATORY POEMS 


They tell how he faced the fire and shell, 

How he stood like a god in the mouth of hell, 
Swearing and fighting and choking with dust, 

Let it cost him his life—he would die if he must! 
The blood poured from his wounded side, 

But he stood there fearless, the symbol of pride, 
Turing the tide of the battle that day, 

Then at twilight lay dying. His comrades say 
His buddie had fallen and when they were found 
My lad was trying to soothe the wound. 

As he lifted up his comrade’s head 

To his own kind breast—he fell back dead! 

His gallant soul had found release, 

His dying lips prayed, “Father—Peace!” 

As we honor the heroes who have died, 

Who for a cause were crucified, 

I picture a lad who held to his breast 
A dying comrade—offering rest. 

In the twilight’s golden glow, 

A bugle note falls soft and low, 

Multitudes go passing by, 

Praying “Peace to their ashes, wherever they lie.” 












Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Oct. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLO LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township. PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 
































































